


Sanguinary

by CommanderBayban



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Audio 050: Zagreus, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Bratting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, F/M, Gentle Dom, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Platonic BDSM, Riding Crops, Romantic Friendship, Service Submission, Vampires, domestic life, funishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29371125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderBayban/pseuds/CommanderBayban
Summary: While on holiday at his country home somewhere in the depths of England, Tepesh gets a hankering to purchase a new house. The only question is...where?He consults Ouida but she quickly turns the conversation into her own special brand of fun—fun that ultimately gets her into a bit of trouble!
Relationships: Lady Ouida/Lord Provost Tepesh





	Sanguinary

Lord Provost Tepesh was a doer. Whether the task was as simple as reviewing propositions by the Council for Temporal Research or as complex as composing a thorough speech for a cause he was passionate about, he never shied away from a duty that needed to be done. After all, he was the leader of the Arcalian Chapter—the original dominant faction on Gallifrey—procrastination and idleness was the antithesis of everything they stood for. Even on his allotted holiday time, his body refused to keep still without his mind conjuring all sorts of plans, ideas, and potential talking points. Oh, the joys of being immortal: the river never runneth dry.

After plucking out the last few bits of pollen in his hair from their trip to San Francisco in the mid 20th century, he and Lady Ouida made the journey back to their estate somewhere in the depths of the English countryside. A 15th century manor it was, built according to their specifications and situated on enough land to swallow any one of the miniature states in the northeastern portion of the United States. Regardless of where one stood on the property, they could feel completely and utterly separated from the world around them. They were far enough away from any roads and shopping districts that any sounds of revving engines, honking horns, or the bustling of foot traffic was all but a distant memory. Instead, the deep, resonant hooting of owls; rapid tittering of cicadas; and the sweeping chorus of foliage singing in the breeze constituted the soundtrack of their home.

The building itself was also a marvel. It was three storeys tall and surrounded by plush, manicured grass on three sides. In front was a gravel circular driveway with a center island dotted with a variety of tall, colourful flowers and plump shrubbery—a trend that would continue around the edges of the home as well. With its crenellations, intricate stone work laced with vines, and array of chimneys spotting the gabled rooftops, the manor could fool any layman that it was, in fact, a bonafide miniature castle. The only missing element was the moat and armed guardsmen standing watch.

It was the kind of home its owner would be proud to showcase to their friends, family members, and business associates. And with the addition of the new thrall—the young Harold Chasen—to the household, Tepesh would usually be thrilled to give the grand tour of the loggia overlooking the exotic gardens; the stables housing two deep-ember thoroughbreds; and the beautiful, hand-carved archways and vaulted ceilings that spread to nearly every room. But, on this occasion, his enthusiasm was veiled by the yearning for something more.

There was no doubt that Tepesh still felt the pang of gratitude when he rode through the manor’s gates and was blanketed by a sense of tranquility as he sauntered along the fields, but recently he had been intrigued by the thought of owning a _chateau_ somewhere in the south of France. Or perhaps on the planet Auvergne, where the population was only a fraction of France’s and the land was more plentiful. The only downfall being its lack of nightlife: he and Ouida never refused a good game of poker with the most experienced of gamesters, and Monaco was only a stone’s throw away from the French borders. But as with any purchase of such a gargantuan nature, pros and cons had to be weighed, options considered, and a bit of clairvoyance had to be put into play.

To sate his budding perturbation with his current residence, Tepesh spent the evening with his face illuminated by the screen of his computer. Through the Galactic Portal, he scoured a myriad of real estate websites and collected pictures of interior designs that sparked his inspiration. What he desired for his third estate was in stark contrast to the appearance of his second. Instead of the dark, rustic aesthetic he had been a fan of since he was a boy, he now preferred something light, airy, and covered in gilt and filigree. Vampires may have a distaste of the sun, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t own a residence that envied the Sun King’s!

As he scrolled through the available listings in his preferred locations, he remembered the package he had ordered a few days prior: a garniture of antique ormolu candelabras. With his hearts jolting to the sudden bout of adrenaline, he opened the page indicating its shipping status and found that it had been delivered that morning!

In a fury, he leapt from his seat and dashed downstairs to greet his parcel by the front door. There it was: two beautifully wrapped brown boxes perched upon one another, the contents inside eagerly waiting for their new owners to set them aflame. Tepesh brought in the boxes one at a time into the solar, setting them carefully onto the smooth, unvarnished wooden floors. Kneeling beside them, he pulled out his trusty utility pocket knife and sliced into the tape with one perfect stroke. The dull scraping sound reverberated throughout the room followed by the blunt staccato of each cardboard flap being pulled upwards and the sticky, crinkly noise of the internal wrappings.

At first glance at the gilded inflorescences, Tepesh’s eyes widened and his parted lips upturned into a satisfied grin. He hadn’t done so much as bought a plot of land, yet seeing those ornate capitals assured him that, in due time, these candelabras would be in their proper place, surrounded by damask and an excess of marble sculptures.

A knock on the wall shifted Tepesh back into the present. Still kneeling over the open boxes, he turned around to see Lady Ouida standing before him in the doorway, batting her lashes as she looked down upon him. She was wearing a black one-piece petticoated dress with puffed sleeves, ruffled edgings, and superficial buttons that ran down the chest. To match were black, lace tights that fell into her low-heeled tea parties. Not a strand of hair was out of place and, to add to her ensemble, was a handmade bow with a brooch in the center attached to the side of her head. Yes, the Lord Provost was her employer and she his live-in employee, but their relationship had grown enough over the centuries that her getting dressed in the morning was no longer an act of conventional professionalism, but a rule worthy of discipline. Every evening she was required to greet him in her regular, outgoing attire. To an outsider, it may sound like a primitive rule to have, but it was mutually agreed upon. Not to mention that Tepesh, himself, also dressed to impress as soon as he woke for the night. Even if the only person they had to impress was each other.

“Lord Provost,” she curtseyed, “Must you make all this racket so early in the twilight hour?”

Tepesh pulled out one of the candelabras by its stem and walked over to the stone fireplace where there was an obvious empty spot in the middle of an assortment of tschotskes collected from far away lands. A former thrall had broken the light fixture that once sat there. By accident, they claimed. But it was only one of a series of accidents that forced Tepesh to rid of them in a rather _unflattering_ way.

He sat the new fixture upon the mantle as though it were made of pure glass that would shatter into a million pieces if one extra pascal of pressure was added onto it. “Time waits for no one,” he replied, “And what happened to ‘good evening, how are you?’”

Lady Ouida placed a gentle hand over her décolletage and bowed her head, “Good evening, Lord Provost. I have already prepared your tea; it’s simmering away as we speak.”

Her voice flowed as smooth as honey and just as sweet.

“Thank you,” Tepesh answered with a hint of force and continued to position his new ornamentation just right against the countertop.

Ouida minced further into the room before making herself comfortable on one of the mauve-cushioned seats. As she did so, she peered curiously into the open boxes. “So...you bought two candelabras for seemingly no reason at all...Which means you’re either having another quincentennial crisis or you’ve succumbed to the persuasion of teleshopping.”

Tepesh took a step back to admire his work, “Neither.”

Ouida joined him in admiration. Her face contorted into a confused grimace as she looked upon the empty candelabra covered in bronze-gold coating and accented with bats around the column and dripping floral motifs on the arms. It stood valiantly in a room whose main colour scheme was black, brown, and cream; and whose style appeared anachronistic amongst the medieval woodwork. In short: it looked horrible. But she was in the mood for a bit of fun and when the time was right she’d make her opinion well known.

“Look around, Ouida,” Tepesh turned about to face her. “As much as I love our home here in the English countryside, haven’t you ever wished to live somewhere more...vivacious?”

She crossed her legs at the knee, “I don’t know. Have I?”

“This place still looks as it did 500 years ago, right down to the ink stain underneath the rug! A woman so keen on the latest _haute couture_ like yourself should shudder at the thought of living in a home so obsolescent.”

On the end table beside her was an old snuff box given to her by an erstwhile friend. Ouida ran her finger along its lid and scrutinised the non-existent dust particles it left behind. “On the contrary, Lord Provost,” she responded, “Our home still looks as beautiful as it did on moving day. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“And neither would I; charm never goes out of style…,” Tepesh pulled out a packet of matches from the drawer beside him, but as he turned back to the candelabra he clicked his teeth in remembrance, “Would you hand me the candles, Kitten?”

“Yes, Lord Provost.”

Without tarriance, Ouida lifted herself from the seat and pulled out a handful of decrepit, burnt out pieces of wax from another candelabra. Then, she minced over to him innocently and dropped the miniature pieces into his palm before returning to her seat.

They certainly weren't the correct proportions for a garniture that had just been bought. Tepesh looked down at the bite-sized crumbs in his hand, then back at Ouida who was flashing him a cheeky smile from her perch.

“What are these?”

“The candles you asked for?”

His voice dropped in timbre, “You know full well I meant the ones from the box.”

“Oh?” she pouted, “I’m sorry, next time you should be more specific.”

Tepesh pinched one of the morsels by its gritty wick and lifted it beside his face, “Ah, yes, because it’s completely logical that I would want to light a candle with two seconds left to live.”

Ouida shrugged and picked up a paperback from the coffee table in front of her. She thumbed through the yellowed pages mindlessly, “I wouldn’t put it past you. You’ve done many ‘logical’ things that don’t make sense to the rest of us.”

Watching her intently, Tepesh stepped over to the table and slammed the candle pieces onto it. The rattling sound of the glass vase sitting atop echoed throughout the room. “Hand me the ones from the box. _Now._ ”

“Can it wait?” she said, “I kinda want to read this.”

He whipped the book from her hand, “You will do as you’re told, you disrespectful termagant. Or do you wish to be spanked until you submit?”

She rolled her eyes as she coiled a lock of hair around her fingers, “I know you wouldn’t do it.”

Tepesh snatched the novel from her hand and slammed it onto the floor. “ _Shut up_ ,” he pointed to the boxes on the other side of the room, “And get me my candles, Ouida. Lest we add to your growing list of penances? Scrubbing your mouth with soap, perhaps?”

Underneath her purposefully bratty exterior, Ouida’s cheeks began to flush. With her teeth tugging at her bottom lip, she gazed up at her Lord Provost whose menacing stare penetrated her to the core. Just a glimpse of _that_ stare melted her into a pile of submission.

“Fine, I’ll get your candles…” she harrumphed.

Under direct supervision, she did as asked. As _expected._ Tepesh counted each one of the stalks aloud—five—and told her that she would receive just as many hits as punishment in the coming hours for being a bad girl so early in the evening. Ouida pouted and apologised to her Lord Provost for being a naughty Kitten; he accepted, naturally, but that wouldn’t get her off the hook.

Back in the offices of the Gallifreyan capital, Lady Ouida was a model assistant. She was so diligent and punctual with her work that the other executives would make frequent compliments about how lucky Tepesh was to have her in his employment. If minutes or proposals needed to be typed, they were written and distributed in record time. If she was required to arrive at a location at a specified time, she would appear early with all the necessary materials in hand. Never once did she talk back and never once did she falter.

But they were on holiday now. As much as Tepesh refused to believe it, work was on the backburner until they returned home. Regardless, Ouida was still his assistant and the usual domestic routines of preparing his meals and keeping house were still in play. And while she did undertake _most_ with as much efficiency as she did at home, being on holiday afforded her with an abundance of opportunities to rile up her friend...all in the name of love, of course.

Tepesh set the long, white candles inside each one of the five sconces before striking a match and adorning each stick of wax with its own personal flame.

“Where were we?” he said, his voice returning to its light and forgiving tone.

“The house.”

“That’s right,” he flicked the match cold. “Have you ever wished for something different? Brighter upholstery? A series of marble busts lining the hallways? Floors with enough sheen that they could rival any mirror?”

“...Not really.”

“Or what about adding a splash of colour on the walls? I think a turquoise would look ravishing...serene yet commanding attention without saying a word. Not unlike myself.”

Ouida chuckled to herself, “This house is only 500 years old, but our place back on Gallifrey is, what, over two thousand? I guess when we return back you wouldn’t bear to step inside!”

“No, no.” Tepesh waved away the comment, “I haven’t grown _tired_ of our homes, _per se_ , it’s more so that I am a complex person who cannot be bound to one single architectural style.”

Ouida scratched her head, “So, what you’re saying is you want another house.”

“Precisely.”

“I see.”

“I haven’t yet decided on the location, but I should have it narrowed down by the start of the morning. Of course, I will consult you to plan the logistics and so on…”

“How heavenly,” she muttered.

Tepesh strolled around the room, one hand on his hip and the other against his chin. He stopped behind the couch, staring out at the fireplace and the large painting hanging above it in a thick, hand-carved wooden frame. It was a portrait of him from the chest up staring intensely at the audience from askance. His bejeweled hands were positioned in the lower left quadrant sitting atop a black cane with a silver snake head as the handle. Despite the fetching cane and rings that always drew compliments when he wore them about, it was the striking contrast of his curly blond hair and piercing red eyes against the relatively dark colour palette that was the main focal point. He always admired that picture; how it perfectly captured his regal and distinguished persona. One look in its direction was all it took to hypnotise even the most strong-willed of dictators.

“That painting should be redone,” he said.

Ouida folded her feet underneath her and rolled her eyes. “Yeah I agree,” she deadpanned, “It should be _me_ staring down at the cretins who dare enter our humble abode.”

Tepesh sized her up with a coy smile spreading across his face. It was only a matter of time before her bratty side was sure to come out again; she simply couldn’t help herself. He ignored her comment and continued, “My hair is longer now; I’ll have to find a skilled painter I can sit for. I refuse to commission any one of those postmodern amateurs dominating the scene these days. I could always go back to Monsieur Pierre...although I would have to explain why I’ve failed to age while he withers like an old prune.”

“Personally, Lord Provost, I think the whole idea is stupid,” Ouida admitted.

There was a brief, yet tense, moment of silence between them. Tepesh’s eyes blinked with intent. He slowly cocked his head to the side and glared upon the girl as though she had just blasphemed the Yssgaroth.

“Excuse me?”

She gazed down at her pointed, red nails, inspecting each one thoroughly for signs of disrepair, “I said I think the whole idea is stupid.”

“What exactly do you find _stupid_ , Lady Ouida?”

“Moving house. Again. There’s nothing wrong with the two we have. This is just another one of your harebrained ideas probably manifested from watching one too many historical dramas on TV.”

“ _Harebrained ideas?_ ” Tepesh marched towards Ouida and slapped his hands squarely on the armrests surrounding her. With their faces being only a few centimetres apart, he spat in sotto, “Do you find it amusing to insult my intelligence?”

“Mm...yes, I do, actually Lord Provost,” she purred. Her attention was still focused on her freshly painted manicure, but she stole a furtive little glance upwards at him. That annoyed look he always gave never ceased to make her giddy inside.

“Oh? Do you now? Are you sure about that?”

“I am _always_ sure...”

His bottom lip quivered, but his tone remained strong and resolute. He rose to attention and snapped his fingers, “Stand up.”

“Why?”

“I _said_ , stand up.”

Ouida hummed to herself, “Mmm...why should I?”

Tepesh snapped his fingers again, “...Who am I?”

“You are my Lord Provost.”

“And who are you?”

“I am your Kitten,” she cooed.

“And a good little Kitten stands up when she is told.”

Ouida snuggled into herself, “But this chair is very comfortable.”

Tepesh seized Ouida by the wrists and, in one swift motion, pulled her off the chair and forced her feet to touch the floor. The crimson eyes glaring down at her were reminiscent of the painting: sharp and electrifying. She squirmed, pretending that she wanted to break away, but his grip kept her shackled in front of him. Her legs were free, though, which made a lightbulb flicker on in her head: she stood on his feet and looked up at him with her fluttering, doe eyes.

“Apologise for your disparaging comments,” he whispered forcefully.

“No,” she giggled, “I am entitled to an opinion. And I think your idea of buying a new house is _stupid._ ”

Tepesh pushed her off and stuck his finger in her face. “You impertinent child!” he hissed, “You wouldn’t know a good idea if it slapped you across the face!”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you try me!” She stuck out her tongue and hummed a neener-neener.

His hand reached out and unleashed a sweeping smack across the cheek, filling her complexion with a deep, rosy hue. Ouida gave a mousy squeal and stumbled back onto the arm of the couch behind her. In her ears, she could hear the rapid pangs of her hearts beating in both shock and awe. But she was still not satisfied. She bit the tip of her nail and grinned, “You hit like Rassilon—weak and impotent."

Another slap came barrelling down across her face. Her nails dug into the couch to keep herself from falling over, but her body still shifted in tandem with the sheer force Tepesh had handed to her. He shook his head deliberately back and forth without averting his threatening glare, “Your behaviour is despicable tonight, which only serves to support my postulation.”

“...Of what…?” she sniffed.

“That you’re good for nothing except being my personal blood bank.”

“And, yet, without me,” she licked her lips, “You would be good for nothing at all.”

Tepesh creeped over to her; each step he took blasted a wave of power from his body which shot through the floor and directly to Ouida like a seismic shock. When he was positioned before her, he calmly began cracking his knuckles one hand at a time. “I think I shall increase your beatings from five to ten, since you insist on being a brat...and because I love to hear you scream.”

Ouida giggled and sprinted out of his sight to jump onto the side of the couch furthest away from him. “I’ll make sure I won’t scream this time!”

He chuffed to himself in disbelief. “I’ll make you scream right now,” he said, his voice dripping in seduction, “Come here.”

The thought of what he would do to her made Ouida’s hearts pound like a jackhammer. Whatever he was offering, she wanted the full extent of it...but she didn’t want to give in. She didn’t want to simply walk over and submit herself to his whims. No, she wanted her Lord Provost to force himself onto her and treat her like the princess she was. She knew that’s what he preferred as well: the thrill of the hunt. A wide, closed-lip cheshire grin spread across her face, “Make me.”

Tepesh’s nostrils flared to match the flame that was burning within him. “Do you know what I do to churlish little girls like you?” He cracked his knuckles one hand at a time.

“You don’t do anything!” she exclaimed, “You’re too weak!”

Through a snarl, Tepesh bared his bright, white teeth complete with two fangs sharp enough to cut through the thickest of sinew. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind feeling the full extent of my strength…”

Before she could blink, he yanked her from her seat and dragged her petite frame onto his lap face down. Like a worm plucked from the soil by a hungry schoolboy, she writhed and wriggled in his grasp but was effectively stuck under his control. Tepesh lifted her dress just enough to see her skin peeking out from underneath her opaque tights and gave her a firm wallop with the palm of his hand.

“Count!” he commanded, and he struck her again.

“...No…!” she teased.

He smacked harder, eliciting a winsome moan from his concomitant. “Count, you tempestuous shrew!”

A wave of warmth overtook Ouida, “Oof...f-four...five!”

But before either one of them could continue indulging in their own fantasies, the sound of thin footsteps approaching broke the scene. For a millisecond everything stopped: their movements, their fluttering hearts, even time and space itself. And then it all sped up in an instant. Without another second to lose, Ouida bounded off of her Lord Provost, flopping beside him to tame her hair as Tepesh cleared his throat and rubbed his hand as if nothing had happened at all. Through telepathy, the two vampires shared a moment of adrenaline-soaked lamentation, but otherwise they appeared like any other couple bonding innocently on the couch.

Tepesh grabbed her hand and set it on his lap, squeezing it firmly. _“Your remaining punishment will be belated”_ he said, _“But not forgotten.”_

Gradually the footsteps increased in volume until a boy the same height as the Lord Provost but eons younger walked into the room. He was wearing his favourite black suit and striped tie with shoes that made even the finest looking glass seem uninviting. His skin was naturally peachy, but he insisted on dousing himself in a layer of pale foundation and surrounding his eyes with a veil of red eyeshadow. It was not in response to his being spirited away by two creatures of the night, but rather a carry-on habit from his human years when he would steal away his mother’s makeup. To dear Harold Chasen, there was nothing more fascinating than the dead.

“Good evening, Father. Mother,” he said in his signature monotone.

“Good evening, Harold,” they chorused.

Why Tepesh and Ouida decided that their newest thrall would refer to them by such familial monikers? One could argue that it was out of selfishness. Another out of love. You see, Ouida calling Tepesh by his title of ‘Lord Provost’ and Tepesh referring to her as ‘Lady Ouida’ or simply ‘Ouida’ was a form of respect that transcended traditional name-calling. While she was paid to be his concomitant, they were on close enough terms that any typical staff relations would opt for referring to one another by a first name basis: ‘Ouida’ and ‘Tepesh’. But she never did so. No, she wouldn’t dare utter those six letters and two syllables to herself or anyone else. Not because she was afraid or because it was sacrilegious, but because, in her eyes, her Lord Provost had _earned_ his title. Speaking of him in such casual terms was akin to a press secretary calling the President by a pet name during a televised press conference, but it carried a lot more weight.

When the two decided to amplify their relationship into something more than employee and employer, it was an obvious decision of where to go next. Tepesh was the leader of one of six ruling houses on Gallifrey, whose domineering, yet suave, temperament made him a shoo-in for the position. In contrast, Ouida was born to serve and she loved to do so, but that didn’t mean she was submissive to the point of being servile. At least...not without a bit of lip service and a twinkle in the eye. From the minute they first met, they had begun to learn about each other in ways that surpassed the necessary requirements for a boss and his secretary. He became, not a summertime fling who blew in and out with the changing of the tide, but a friend who loved and cared for her as if no one else mattered in the world. Because, for Tepesh, no one else did.

Calling him by his title was a form of endearment—a reminder of how much Ouida trusted him with her life. It was not a matter of domination, demanding respect, or being subservient to a man with a complex, but quite the reverse: _she_ bestowing the title upon him outside of the capitol walls reminded them both of the mutual trust, love, and respect that was such an integral part of their relationship. He was her Lord Provost, the man who would forever keep her safe and never steer her wrong; and she was his Lady Ouida, the woman who always believed in him and whose service he was forever indebted to.

But because these titles were for them and them alone, having an outsider join in was more fantastical than expecting pigs to fly. Still, having Harold refer to him as _Tepesh_ and her as _Ouida_ was out of the picture as well. Although they had no ill-feeling toward Harold, Harold was a thrall and thralls were on the bottom rung of the hierarchy in vampire society. Despite drinking Tepesh’s blood which turned the boy immortal and bound the two together in a form of master-servant kinship, it would never be forgotten that Harold spent the first twenty years of his life as a human and would be connected to Tepesh until death did them part. So why not have the thrall call them ‘Master’? Well, it felt too harsh. Too clinical. In his own special way, he was their adopted son: a child who had been given a new lease on life thanks to two vampires from another world.

Harold turned stiffly towards Ouida from the doorway, “Mother?”

“Yes?” she called back.

“I’m hungry and the kettle has just gone off.”

Ouida gently slapped her forehead, “Ah, damn...I mean, yes, yes, I know.” She stood up and patted down her dress, “There’s leftover blood sausage in the fridge, dear.”

“Can you prepare it?”

She exhaled a small sigh and shook her head at the question. That was Harold, alright. Grown enough to fix his own breakfast, but he insisted that she do the honours. She liked to attribute it to her stellar cooking skills. The Lord Provost never put a bad word in for that!

She shuffled over to Harold and wrapped her arm around his back. Then he bent down and allowed himself to be pecked on the cheek.

“Would you like a plate, Lord Provost? Or should I just bring you your tea?”

“Tea would be fine,” he answered, as he got up to push aside the boxes from the walkway behind him, “I...shall be dining later. I will inform you as to when.”

“Will you be in the study all night? For uh...the _housing business_?”

He gave an affirmative hum.

“Alrighty; I’ll check on you if it gets too late. Let’s go, Harold.”

They swivelled around and headed out, but not before Tepesh beckoned for them to wait.

“Yes, Lord Provost?”

“France? Or Auvergne?”

Lady Ouida snickered under her breath, “Ummm...how about…”

Upon receiving the remainder of the message through their mental link, Tepesh held a finger to his lips and told her to hush.

 _“You are a very naughty Kitten,”_ he simpered.

She licked her lips and waved playfully as she made her grand exit, “Only for you, Lord Provost...”

Harold exchanged glances at both of them. Whatever they were talking about, he didn’t want to know.

* * *

Whether or not his entourage wanted to assist with his real estate plans or found it a waste of time was a moot point—Tepesh was adamant that his portfolio of investments must grow by this time next year.

As Ouida was busy vacillating between moonbathing and scrawling free verse into her poetry journal, Harold was sticking his nose in books on mortuary science and practicing taxidermy on whatever rats and squirrels he could catch with his bare hands. A common misconception amongst mortals was that vampires spent their waking hours stalking prey and planning a series of murders to wreak havoc amongst the townsfolk, but that was far from the truth. Every race of living beings from Earth to Karolus IX had a group of miscreants with nothing better to do than cause trouble, but the vast majority of the population was content to go about their daily lives with as much peace as possible.

Ouida and Tepesh straddled the line of being avid thrill seekers and being homebodies. Gambling was one of their many passions, and the reward didn’t matter insofar as the rush from achieving it. Sitting at the tables surrounded by high rollers of varying skill sets all vying for the chance of strutting off with a truckload of credits to their names and an opportunity to be the talk of the town for the rest of the night.

The two of them were not the sort who could win every game they tossed a chip into, but they had enough wins under their belt that any amateur privy to the premier gamblers in the universe stepped aside when they strutted through the casino doors. Blackjack, poker, baccarat, and all the interstellar variants—it didn’t matter what as long as they had a stiff drink and competitors who kept them on their toes.

On the flip side, they loved a scintillating piece of literature. They were both seasoned poets who had published many a book both separately and as co-writers. As far as topics were concerned, nothing was off the table. Sometimes she was in the mood for a spot of horror while his mind was set on the way the moon glistened upon the riverbank. Other times they’d switch. But it was all in good fun. They hadn’t intended on being published authors until they received a suggestion from a friend who insisted that ‘their talents should be noted throughout the galaxy’. A few pitches and a few edits later and huzzah! There were their names emblazoned on books in every bookstore and (almost) every library from sea to shining sea.

Dear Harold hadn’t yet tasted the sweet sweet flavour of success like his ‘parents’ had. But, then again, he was only twenty-one. According to his mother, he might as well have been eighty-eight because of his propensity for ‘idleness’ and an interest in the ‘wrong’ subjects for a budding adult like himself. “A boy in the prime of his life should not be spending his days carrying out fictitious suicides and pretending funeral services are the pinnacle of Hollywood entertainment,” she’d say to her fellow socialites. The Chasens had enough money to send Harold to university ten times over, but he refused to attend despite his mother’s willingness to bribe the dean into allowing her son to skip the standard admissions process.

“He would make a fine lawyer,” one friend would say, whose child was beating their brains studying for the bar exam.

“Or an accountant,” another would chime in, despite her husband being one bad day away from going postal.

“Definitely _not_ a doctor,” Ms Chasen argued, “I wouldn’t want my own son—with his... _necrophiliac_ tendencies—to hold a scalpel anywhere near my body. Heaven knows you wouldn’t come out of surgery alive.”

He could have made a brilliant mortician. Or funeral director. Even an embalmer! But Harold didn’t like to work. He hated working. Specifically, the kind that involved a set schedule and coworkers one may or may not end up liking. He preferred to ramble around without restraint and without responsibility, a trend that would also extend to his love life.

“If you don’t wish to work, then you must find a wife, Harold,” Ms Chasen would nag, “I refuse to be known as a mother of a deadbeat child.”

The one thing she did know about Harold was that there was zero chance he would put himself into the dating scene. He’d never stepped foot in a bar or a club, and what were the odds that he’d find his true love sitting beside a gravestone waiting for him? In retaliation for his loafing, Ms Chasen added his name to a computerised dating service who matched him (according to her specifications) to a series of women of accomplished backgrounds and impressive resumes.

He scared each one of them off. Apparently, pretending to self-immolate or slam a cleaver against one’s wrist is not society’s idea of a good first impression.

But it certainly impressed Tepesh.

So there they were, a happy colony of (half-)vampires who were soon to be the proud residents of an 18th century-style chateau somewhere. Tepesh had made up his mind that the third house would definitely be built according to his say instead of moving into a home that had been occupied by someone previously. Both their English manor and Gallifreyan cottage had been nothing but a plot of land before he decided to close the deal, and there was no reason to renege on that trend now.

Wherever they chose to roam, there had to be enough land for a large driveway and beautiful gardens. They had to be far enough from any neighbours—present or potential—that, no matter which window they looked through, all they could see were trees. Were they misanthropes? No. Asocial? Well, it wouldn’t be a word they’d choose. But mortals were too nosy for their own good and seemed to cause trouble when trouble wasn’t necessary.

In his study (also known as the cabinet), where the room was pitch black save for a handful of lit candles and the backlighting of his computer, Tepesh spent the entire night researching his latest interest (with intermittent periods of pacing and soliloquizing to himself). When his mind was set on a topic, it was difficult to pull him away without his irritation seeping into whatever else was expected of him at the time. Because of this, Ouida and Harold knew that, unless they wanted to discuss the subject of his perseveration, it was better to leave him be.

The one exception to that rule applied to Ouida who, based on her suggestion, claimed it was her duty to check up on him before the morning struck. Not only did his explorations into the depths of information cause him to forget meals and other habits of the daily routine, but the last thing she needed was for her Lord Provost to waste away in the daylight hour because he was too busy researching falconry or studying hieroglyphics ‘just because’. She had a marvellous track record of reporting in on time, leaving him with little fear that he might one day collapse due to self-inflicted exhaustion.

Therefore, he kept on with his work. Until, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the time in the corner of his device.

“Good heavens,” Tepesh mumbled to himself, “It can’t be that late?” After rubbing his eyes and giving a wide, pleasurable stretch of his back muscles, he checked the time again. The minute counter increased by one increment. “Where is Ouid—agh…”

A dull, tense pain split through the side of his neck and into his shoulders. He applied pressure to the skin and rubbed it in circles but the pain refused to subside. “Damn it,” he spat in hushed tones, “How long have I been sitting here?”

While Tepesh was coming to terms with reality, Harold slipped into his mother’s boudoir where she was sitting at her desk with her head buried into her arms.

“Mother?” he whispered, but Ouida remained still save for her chest which rose and fell at a delicate pace. Harold made himself acquainted with her room and placed a gentle hand on her arm, shaking it softly.

“Mother?” he repeated.

“Mhmmm…?” she groaned.

“Mother, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mhmm...what?” Her eyes flickered open and she lifted herself slowly from resting position. Through a yawn, she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand before turning herself to Harold, who was still wearing his Sunday best, “What time is it?”

He pulled up his sleeve and checked the time.

“You’re kidding,” she said, stifling a yawn.

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh...well, um, I’m sorry Harold,” Ouida quickly pushed herself away from the desk and flattened down her petticoat, “Give me a minute, alright?”

“Why?”

“Because I—”

“Oh, hello Father.”

Ouida whipped herself around, her eyes the size of dinner plates. Tepesh was standing in the doorway channeling his inner Nosferatu—a menacing appearance that sent a chill down her spine. Frozen in place, she gazed up at his scarlet pupils cutting through the dark and beaming directly into her spirit. It was times like these when she understood why mortal flesh feared to encounter a bloodsucker in the dead of night.

“Harold, go to sleep,” Tepesh ordered, “Lady Ouida and I have matters to attend to.”

“Yes...Father…,” Harold replied, slow and soporific. He spun himself around and walked out the door step by step as if his reason for being in the boudoir had immediately nullified with the presence of his master.

When the footsteps receded, Tepesh beckoned Ouida with a wag of his finger, “Come.”

By the glint in his eye and the manner of which he greeted her, she dared not talk back. She minced over to him and trailed behind as he led them both back across the hall and into his cabinet.

“Sit down,” he commanded.

Ouida folded down her dress and sat in his chair by the desk where the dim glow of his computer monitor shined against the side of her face. Her attention never wavered from his, but as each second passed she felt herself becoming flush. Tepesh stepped towards her, not close enough to where she could touch him, but not far enough away that it felt miles apart. Ouida allowed herself to study every inch of her Lord Provost, starting from his chunky platform boots, up to his black coat and waistcoat accented with green worsted cord (giving it the impression of a military tunic), and finishing at the tip of his blond curls. He was the epitome of handsome; a man who commanded attention just by stepping into a room. Whatever punishment he wished to inflict on her now, she’d have no choice but to submit.

“Do you know what time it is, Lady Ouida?” he asked.

She frowned, “Yes, Lord Provost…”

“So you are well aware of why I have called you in here tonight.”

“Yes, Lord Provost.”

“Do tell.”

“I...forgot to check up on you all day. And…” She averted her eyes down to her dress and twiddled her fingers, “I, um, I stayed up past my bedtime. And I fell asleep without telling you good night.”

“I am very disappointed in you.”

Ouida’s hearts dropped into her stomach. Hearing him say those words made her die inside; there was nothing more important in the world than pleasing him. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, “I...I didn’t mean to…”

Tepesh clasped his hands behind him and, with his back erect and his head held high, he paced back and forth like a general briefing his officers before battle. “You know how... _focused_...I can be at the expense of all else; I’m sure I haven’t eaten all night.”

“I know.” Ouida gazed up at him, “I should get you a drink. A small one to tide you over until later.”

He reached back to rubbed his shoulder blade, feeling for the knot that refused to untwine, “Wonderful.”

“...And a massage?”

He stopped in his tracks and looked back at her. His face had softened and one corner of his lips had upturned ever so slightly, “You _are_ my little Kitten.”

A tingle of giddiness spread throughout her system, tickling the butterflies that had swarmed in. They both knew that they’d never hurt or neglect the other on purpose; whatever reason Ouida had for forgetting three rules in one night had to be out of honest forgetfulness. She was glad that, despite not asking for details, Tepesh understood her well enough to forgive her at a moment’s notice. Her cheeks speckled with hues of red and her shoulders curled inwards. “Forever and always, my Lord Provost,” she simpered, “May I be excused?”

“You may.”

When she returned back to his cabinet with a glass of ice cold cow’s blood in tow, she found him reclining in his seat with his hands folded on his chest and his eyes shut. She pulled out a coaster from the desk drawer and set it in the middle of the table. The Lord Provost preferred to not leave items dangling on the edge of furniture.

“I have returned, Lord Provost,” she said.

“Hm?” His eyes fluttered open, “Ah, thank you.” He took a couple of large gulps until there was nothing left but a satisfied sigh and an empty glass.

“Wow, I really did neglect you,” Ouida laughed, “Now sit up.”

He scooted himself to the back of the chair. “It should have been you I feasted on,” he teased, “But, then again, you don’t deserve it.”

She started to massage his back and shoulders to his liking, digging her fingers into every crevice, muscle, and tendon that made themselves known to her meticulous touch. “I don’t deserve it?” she sputtered, “But why? I’m being a good girl...”

Tepesh chuckled through his nose, “How quickly you forget your impertinence earlier and then your rule breaking tonight. I can’t reward that now can I?”

Ouida rolled her eyes, “Mm…”

“What _were_ you doing, anyhow, that prevented me from seeing you all this time?”

“Umm…” She scratched the back of her head, “I was writing.”

“Poetry.”

“Yes…”

“I see. And did you finish your poem?”

“No...I got a bit stuck and ended up falling asleep.”

A silence ensued between them.

“Come in front of me,” he directed.

Ouida stepped before him and clasped her hands innocently in front of her like a young schoolgirl waiting for the starting bell to ring.

Tepesh stretched his back and exhaled another sigh of pleasure, “Thank you for the massage, darling.”

“You’re welcome, Lord Provost,” she curtseyed.

Tepesh smiled up at Ouida and patted his leg. Gracefully, she lifted her skirt just enough to position herself upon her rightful seat. Without speaking, he wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling them even closer together. The shared coolness of their bodies comforted her; she could stay within his arms for the rest of her life. And, thinking back, she had already spent more centuries _with_ him than without him. She wished upon a star that that trend would never change.

She snuggled into his neck, kissing his cold skin as he made her body tingle by way of backrubs and head petting.

“How many lines of poetry have you written thus far, my Kitten?” he whispered.

“Mmmh...I think a hundred or so?” she mewled.

“...I think that shall be satisfactory.”

Her brows furrowed, “For what?”

“You are to write a hundred lines tonight before bed,” he instructed.

Ouida pushed herself back to glare at him with a nasty grimace, “What!?”

He remained collected in his demeanour, “One hundred lines, Lady Ouida, detailing your wrongdoings and how you plan to ensure this doesn’t happen again in the future.”

“You must be joking!” she blurted.

“And don’t try any feeble attempts at humour. Anything similar to what you did last time—writing one word per line—will _not_ be acceptable.”

“But—”

He held a finger to her lips, “Being literal will not help your case, either.”

Ouida pouted and nipped at his finger. “That’s not fair!” she yelled, and leapt off his lap to stand between his desk and the wall with her arms crossed.

Tepesh tutted and crossed his legs at the knee, “It’s _very_ fair, my child. And as an addendum...no poetry until tomorrow which includes (but is not limited to) reading, writing, or speaking about any aspect of it.”

She gasped with incredulity, “I can’t believe you! I was almost done with this one!”

“You must atone for your crimes,” he smirked.

She stomped her pretty shoes on the ground, “Why...you...you sodden-witted lord! You can’t make me do it!”

Tepesh burst out a large chortle, “Away, you three-inch fool! Else I tie thee to the chair and bind thine arms to the table!”

“Yeah right! Your knotting is an embarrassment! You can’t even tie your own shoelaces which is why your boots have zippers on the side!”

“All the better to zip your bratty little mouth shut!” And then an idea sparked within him. He bounded from his seat and pointed at his wall of bookshelves speckled with miniature sculptures and other ornamentation. “Speaking of which,” he continued, as he stepped leisurely in that direction, “I do believe I have a gag stored away somewhere in here just for times like these…”

Ouida quickly pursed her lips shut, “Ummm, you don’t have to do that, Lord Provost.”

He pretended to search around his bookshelf for the _right_ storage box that contained the ‘special gag’, “Whyever not?”

“You know I hate that thing!” she glared.

“Yes, that’s true,” he stopped his searching and spun around, “So then, will you be a good girl and write your lines without any backtalk?”

“Fine!” she harrumphed.

“Splendid!” Tepesh returned back to his Kitten and pecked her on the forehead, “I eagerly await your letter.”

* * *

The funny thing about writers is that, for some, they can churn out piece after piece and line after line like a well-oiled machine. When a titillating plotline hits their brain, they can spend hours focused on their screen or their paper, their hands moving in time to the rapid thoughts that continue to be conjured up in the forefront of their minds. But when tasked to complete a writing assigned by, say, a professor, it’s followed by an immediate groan and an _‘I’d rather be doing anything else!_ ’ The essay is not about one’s interests or fantasies, thus it is vermin that must be eradicated. The author either procrastinates until the last moment when the assignment is due, each day secretly dreading the moment when they’d have no other choice but put pen to paper. Or, in other cases, they spit out the required work with as little effort as they could possibly muster without the paper sounding too daft. Editing? Who’d heard of such a concept!

The latter was Ouida to a tee. Like Tepesh, she hated the nagging feeling that persisted when she procrastinated on even the most basic of activities. If there was something she truly couldn’t care less about (or something she just didn’t want to tackle), she’d find any shortcuts she could take that still made it _appear_ as though she’d slaved over her work for hours and hours.

And she despised these writing assignments.

It was one thing to be punished by revoking privileges or being hit with the crop, but it was another thing to wrack her brain trying to come up with appropriate sentences and talking points. The equivalent of English class on Gallifrey was a breeze, but any time she had to write an essay on an assigned topic it was as if her thought processes came to a screeching halt. At least, this time, she was being given an apology paper and not a research assignment like last time—that was pure torture! And it wasn’t about anything she’d consider fun, either, but researching the karst environments on Polyei Beta. And if the sources weren’t properly cited to his specifications...whew.

As Ouida sat at her desk (he knew better than to have her write in his office during a punishment lest he wanted his computer desktop rearranged or his all of his book spines turned inward!), she ran her finger along the cold metal o-ring attached to her leather collar. As a display of their dedication towards one another, her Lord Provost had commissioned a collar made just for her to wear. It was definitely a conspicuous accessory, but it fit the style of her daily attire to where it didn’t stand out in an eyebrow-raising manner. The only giveaway was that she wore it with _everything_ and refused to remove it. But unless one was privy to the kind of relationship they had, no one ever gave her collar any deep introspection. At least, not the sort that required an essay.

One hundred lines.

Detailing her wrongdoings and solutions.

She propped her head on her hand and huffed. Then she drummed her pencil on the table. Then that wasn’t satisfactory so she switched to using her nails. Why was the initial sentence always so difficult?

~~~~

Some inordinate amount of time later, Ouida peered into Tepesh’s cabinet with her papers held close to her bosom, but the room was vacant. It was extremely late by now, and he was such a stickler for going to bed at a reasonable hour unless they were out painting the town. She walked back down the hall and to his bedchamber. A dainty knock on the door granted her access and she presented her writing to him with a childlike air of satisfaction.

“There!” she chirped.

Tepesh, who had removed his hefty boots and draped his coat along the edge of the king-sized bed, was propped up against the bedframe with his hands steepled on his chest. Purposefully keeping his face as stoic as possible, he plucked the papers from her hands and began to study her words thoroughly like an academy professor. A red pen was at his side ready to unleash its fury on her innermost thoughts.

In the meantime, Ouida grabbed a hanger and placed his coat back in the closet with the others. She meandered around his room searching for something to clean or tidy while stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye. Her fear was that her Lord Provost would command her to rewrite it all because she had accidentally spelled a word wrong or because she had unknowingly slipped up somewhere. She’d made sure to spell check her work this time!

After a few near-excruciating minutes, he called her name firmly. “Ouida,” he said.

She averted her eyes away from a framed photograph of his home district’s skyline, “Yes, Lord Provost?”

“You’ve done well,” he winked.

Her face beamed and radiated an energy that could be felt for miles. “Oh,” she exhaled, “Thank goodness!”

Tepesh sat the pen and papers upon his nightstand. “Now you may go to sleep; we’ve both stayed up long enough.”

Ouida bounced on her heels, “I will!” and skipped over to his side to give him a good night kiss on the cheek. The smooth chill of her lips made his hair stand on end. He had hardly seen her all night and that was much too long for them to be apart—especially on holiday. Before Ouida could turn to leave, he grabbed her hand and planted a small smooch on her skin.

“No,” he whispered, his entrancing eyes gazing into hers.

He patted the empty space on the bed beside him and smiled.

* * *

The following evening, Ouida prepared breakfast as she always did. Blood tea was simmering on the stove and each person was given a share of whatever leftover was in store or a portion of whatever she felt like whipping up at the time. Tonight, her palate was craving something fresh, and pancakes sounded just the ticket.

She pulled out a bowl and set a pan over the burner. From the larder she pulled out a packet of cattle blood and eggs; and from the cabinet some flour. She combined the ingredients with water and mixed them together until it became a thick, soupy consistency. For good measure, she tossed in a few berries for sweetness.

Just as she was beginning to fry the first batch, the kettle whistled. She poured the tea into three porcelain cups and set them onto the silver platter before continuing with her work.

Right on cue, Tepesh entered the kitchen when her back was turned and purloined his drink, gulping it back until there was nothing left. He then vanished into the night.

Ouida sang to herself as she cooked. She didn’t have a voice that record labels would scramble to sign to their company, but it wasn’t grating to the point where you were begging for her to stop. Tonight, her song of choice was a series of _la-la-las_ , _do-do-dos_ set to a suave, sensual rhythm like an acoustic artist in a jazz club.

When all the pancakes were fried, she plated them appropriately and grabbed some syrup from the larder for accompaniment. As she set the items on the platter she noticed the sole empty cup and tutted.

 _“You’re a sneaky one, Lord Provost,”_ she said telepathically.

Breakfast was served at the dining room table—not a round table but a rectangular one—beside a china cabinet that was not filled with china but of ceramic pottery of wine jugs, plates, and bowls. The wall behind the table, to the left of the cabinet, was filled with an array of windows three blocks high that showered the room with a fresh coat of moonlight.

Ouida called in her colony to eat. Tepesh sat at the head of the table while Ouida and Harold sat on opposite sides. Like the model mid-century families who were streamed through the airwaves on Earth, they started the ‘morning’ off with small talk about how everyone was, how they slept, and what their plans were for the day. Harold claimed he slept like a baby, although he couldn’t recall how he found himself in bed after he met with Ouida earlier.

“Mother,” he continued, “You told me you would read your poetry to me later.”

“Oh,” Ouida stole a glance at Tepesh as she slipped a bite of pancake into her mouth, “Not today, dear.”

“Why not?”

“Mummy will be busy tonight, but I promise that I’ll do it tomorrow. Is that okay?”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, Harold.”

Tepesh picked up his knife and cut another bite-sized piece of his food. All the while he stared longingly at his companion whose simpering eyes darted from him to her plate and back again.

“Can I help you?” she finally asked.

“Me?” he scoffed, “Oh, no. I’m just...admiring the art sitting before me.”

Ouida cupped her hand along the side of her face to hide her blushing.

Through the silence, Harold gasped, “I remember my question.”

“Your question?” Tepesh sipped his refilled beverage.

“I went into Mother’s room yesterday because I was curious about something.”

“About?”

“Well,” Harold set down his utensils and folded his hands in front of him, “You and Mother. You two are not married and you deny being a couple, but you are closer than any pair of friends I’ve seen. I find that rather...fascinating.”

The two adults in question looked at each other with wide-eyed, blank expressions. Ouida kicked Tepesh under the table as a signal for him to respond, but he furrowed his brow and kicked back. With each turn of footsy, their countenances went from pallid discomfort to clandestine playfulness.

“Eat your food, Harold,” Ouida snickered under her breath, “You’re a bit too young for those kinds of curiosities.”

When breakfast concluded, Harold went to the solar and began practising one of his favourite classical compositions from the romantic era: Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2. As the melancholic twinkling of the _Marche Funèbre_ reverberated throughout the manor walls, Ouida had dragged Tepesh to his cabinet insisting that they research this ‘new house idea’ of his.

She pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “France,” she said as she watched him open a myriad of bookmarks on the subject.

“France,” he repeated, “What intrigues you about France compared to Auvergne?”

“I dunno,” she answered, “Auvergne has none of the nightlife we crave. You said it was only just recently the planet became inhabited.”

Tepesh fell back in his chair, “We could create our own nightlife from scratch!”

Ouida spat a hum of dissent, “Blegh. Sounds like work.”

“It would be, yes.”

“I don’t wanna work while we’re on holiday, Lord Provost.”

“Hm,” he tapped his chin, “True.”

“And to travel back and forth each time we decided to throw the chips on the table or go to the club...think about all the gas we’d be using! That stuff’s not cheap, you know.”

Tepesh scratched his head and squinted at her, “Gas? Since when did we care about _gas_?”

She shrugged, “Everyone here complains about gas. Gas money, gas bills, gas stations…it’s a marvel humans haven’t run out of it already.”

“...And _how_ does this pertain to us?”

“It doesn’t.”

Tepesh blinked.

Ouida smiled.

“Sometimes I wonder about you,” he said.

She shrouded her face with her arm like a stereotypical vampiress. “I am your Enigma,” she hissed.

A few hours passed. Tepesh scooted away from his desk and stretched, letting out a small groan. They had found the perfect plot of land to build on in the early 18th century. By going back in time, not only could they have the pick of the litter but also ensure that, in the future, their home wouldn’t be surrounded by the breeding ground for Mickey Mouse and friends.

Ouida pretended to yawn and curled up in her seat so her head was resting on his lap, “Lord Provost?” she cooed.

Tepesh petted her head and caressed his fingers gently through her hair, “Hm?”

“I’m tired.”

“I’m not surprised, considering how late you stayed up. I’ll carry you to bed.”

Tiny goosebumps appeared on the surface of her skin. “I don’t wanna go to bed,” she mumbled.

“Then what do you want?”

“You.”

Tepesh’s eyebrow cocked upwards, “Me?”

“I think I deserve it…”

“Because you helped with the home search.”

“Mhmm…”

He licked his lips and pouted in assent, “Well, I think that’s as good a reason as any. You have been a big help—as you always are. But how soon we forget!”

Ouida lifted herself up, “Forget?”

“You still owe me...how many smacks upon that little bottom of yours?”

Ouida stood and grabbed at both sides of her dress to expose her calf-high laced boots, “You’re gonna have to catch me first!”

Tepesh shook his head, “Oh no you don’t!”

With him at her heels, Ouida dashed across the hall, down the stairs, and around the rooms until she no longer felt a presence (except for Harold who was watching respectfully from a distance). Ouida ruffled her brow. “Lord Provost?” she whispered under her breath, “Where are you?”

Her hearts were racing; there was the underlying fear that he’d pop out from around a pillar and tackle her down before she had a chance to understand what had happened. Or that he’d transform into a bat and perch upon her head (which was a sensation that her body did not enjoy. It sent her nerves flaring like if one noticed an insect crawling up their leg).

She traipsed back to whence she came. Slowly. Slowly. Her head swivelling in every which direction. Channeling her inner echolocation would spoil the fun, so she kept herself blind and walked back. Back. Back through the hallways and through the rooms until—

“I knew you’d come back, my Kitten,” Tepesh smirked from atop the stairs. In his hand was a long, black riding crop that he tapped ever so gently against his palm.

Ouida gulped.

~~~~

The outside air was cool and crisp—just how they liked it. Up above, the moon was shining at a full capacity, illuminating the world around them, and every so often a hoot or a chirp from the local wildlife would greet them with nocturnal solidarity.

With her arm held tightly within Tepesh’s grip, Ouida was led behind the house and into the secret garden. Here, there was one continuous path leading from the back entrance down towards the depths of the property. There were also splinter paths, leading left and right and into the forests surrounding them all. But between the unknowns was enough flowering bushes and shrubs to make any gardening store envious. Everything from exotics to native plants grew happily in the dirt, creating a picturesque sight worthy of a wedding ceremony.

Or a bit of fun.

There was a bench hidden in the middle of the garden somewhere. When they reached it, Tepesh commanded her to get into position with emphasis on _not running away_ as he didn’t bring any rope to bind her arms to the rungs. And with the incentive of quenching her thirst if she remained a good girl, she did as told with no questions asked.

“What number were we on?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Six,” she responded solemnly.

“And how much is left?”

“Four.”

“Luckily for you, this should be quick.”

He ran the leather keeper lasciviously over the back of her thighs and up to her bottom. The anticipation forced her to shiver as she remained at the will of her dominant. Being a vampire granted one many abilities that humans could only dream of. One being strength. A vampire could take the lightest object and turn it into a dangerous weapon; but they could make one cry for mercy with just the touch of their hands. Tepesh was no different. From the beginning of their relationship, Ouida had been privy to the way he’d, _ahem_ , ‘put others in their place’. She’d never forget the time when he pummeled a man half to death in the casino because he attempted to steal their winnings. After security pried Tepesh away (with a wad of credits to his and her names), he swaggered away with his hands tucked into his pockets and not a bead of sweat across his brow. If it wasn’t for his reputation to uphold, Ouida was sure he would’ve killed that man.

He only got more alluring after that (if that was even possible!), and from then on her mind was set: she wanted—no—she _needed_ to experience the power of those hands. She needed him to assert his dominance over her like no one else could. The temptation was nipping at her bones tonight. Four wasn’t enough. No, four wasn’t enough.

“Ten.”

Tepesh’s arm was ready to strike. “You want ten?” he clarified. Her enthusiasm towards his whipping was not a secret between them.

“Ten.”

He lips twisted into a smile, “Have it your way.”

The crop smacked across her bottom with enough speed and power that it left it painted with thick stripes of red. Ouida yelped each time without fail, as she knew she would, and he complimented her with sensual words of encouragement. By the time they were through her legs were soon to buckle underneath her. It wasn’t punishment; it was bliss.

Ouida tumbled playfully into the grass to admire her Lord Provost from below. How radiant he looked in the moonlight! The hazy, white glow shrouded his prepossessing figure with an angelic aura, but also made his scarlet eyes stand out amongst the darkness surrounding them—a dichotomy that never failed to intrigue her. He may have been a member of one of the most feared and detested species on Gallifrey, but little did they know of his charms. Yes, her Lord Provost wasn’t afraid to stand up for himself when tempers flared, but, gosh, did he know how to love like no one else.

“I really don’t know how you do it,” he professed, “I doubt there’s a Prydonian alive who could take one lash without doubling over like the cowards they are.”

“I’m _not_ a Prydonian, Lord Provost,” she declared with an underlying tone of seduction, “I can do anything.”

He joined her in the grass. With a flounce of the wrist he pulled out a sheathed dagger from his coat, proffering it to her with a cheeky grin, “Then do with me what you will.”

Without breaking eye contact, she reached for the knife and set it ceremoniously on her lap. She then grabbed her Lord Provost’s arm and tenderly rolled up his sleeve until his entire forearm was exposed. After priming his skin with light touches of her fingertips and soft kisses, she unsheathed the dagger. The blade was small yet mighty, and very well seasoned.

First she ran the flat side along his pale skin. It was cold, dangerous, and inviting. Though he said nothing, his shiver coupled with his piercing eyes urged her to continue.

The sharp edge came next. She did not immediately break through his skin, but she continued to tease by gliding the tip along his network of veins and arteries. To think that these thin coloured ribbons held the life essence of everything that ever lived…

Ouida’s own hearts were fluttering in time to his. She was so close...so close to tasting him again—a delicacy more scrumptious than anything else imaginable. There was not a wine nor a caviar in existence that could beat the taste of her Lord Provost. And with her mouth watering like a Pavlovian dog, she sliced the blade along his wrist with one swift motion. Tepesh clenched his eyes shut and scrunched his face in response to the sharp pain. An expletive passed through his lips which Ouida found appealing—it wasn’t every day he used a colourful metaphor.

The gash was pooling with crimson ambrosia, and she knew better than to waste a drop. Ouida held his wrist to her mouth and began to drink as if she had been starved for weeks, slurping down the familiar coppery flavour. Tepesh’s head fell back as soft murmurs of delight spilled from his lips. Non-haemophiles feared having their blood drained from them—why? The connection between those who shared in each other’s essences was incomparable! Not to mention the pleasure both parties obtained...a boost of energy like nothing before.

Ouida hoarded Tepesh’s arm like a dog protecting its prized bone, and Tepesh set his hand on the back of her head, forcing her to drink more. The blood kept flowing as though his body was yearning to nourish her for eternity. But they were vampires, and the speed in which their wounds healed shocked even them. Soon the well would run dry, but at least its spoils had enough rejuvenating power to hold her over until next time.

The blood slowed to a trickle. She lapped up the remaining drips until the gash closed, leaving no trace that anything had occurred there. Ouida lifted her head and wiped her chin with the back of her hand, licking away the drips from her skin.

“Delicious?” he purred.

“As always...Thank you for the food, Lord Provost,” she pecked him on the cheek, “I just hate how it ends so quickly…”

Tepesh wrapped his hand along the back of her neck, his thumb toying with her jugulars, “Don’t we all?”

After licking the blade clean, she offered the dagger to him, but his eyes were solely focused on her pure, unblemished neck.

“Has anyone told you, Lady Ouida, how intoxicating _you_ taste?” his said.

Ouida laughed, “You tell me that every time.”

Tepesh smirked, revealing a full set of ivory teeth desperately wanting to be stained red, “Do I?”

She wagged the knife at him, but he held up a hand to refuse. Usually during their sanguine flings, they both took turns slicing into each other’s arms, but tonight Tepesh craved the traditional route.

“Lie down,” he instructed.

Ouida pushed down her dress and laid flat on the grass with her arms outstretched and her legs opened.

He chuckled through his nose, “What’s this?”

“I thought we were making snow angels?”

He snapped his fingers, “I knew there was something I forgot to tell Mother Nature earlier!”

“Boo to you!”

“Pah, who needs snow? A vile thing that serves no purpose except to kill the bounty of nature while making everyone’s lives miserable for four months. Shovelling, plowing, falling ill under suspect causes…” he scoffed, “Who needs it?”

“Aw, you’re boring! I love the snow.”

 _“And I love you, my Kitten,”_ Tepesh replied, and then he straddled her; bending down so their breath caressed each other’s faces. Lightly, but still with a touch of force, he bent her neck to expose the greatest amount of surface area. Ouida bit her lip in eager anticipation but, like her, Tepesh admired the flesh before he broke into it. He felt her pulse, the steady rhythm that was, arguably, his favourite sound. Then he traced her veins with his pointed, black lacquered nails.

The excitement they’d both achieved since being outside hadn’t yet subsided. Tepesh refused to waste any more time; he sank his fangs into her neck to steal away her blood. She gasped his name in abject pleasure and wrapped her arms around his back, digging her nails into his coat. As he sated his thirst, his cloud of flaxen curls rubbed softly against her face leaving her with no choice but to run her fingers through the lusciousness of it all.

But before she could go far, Tepesh yanked both her hands away and returned them to their snow angel positions in the grass. Their fingers naturally intertwined. When a sudden hit of ecstasy pulsed through them, they tightened their grip as one.

For Ouida, there was something about the method of which her Lord Provost drank that made her so incredibly attracted. In her time spent around vampires of the highest and of the lowest societal rungs, she had been accustomed to witnessing many a bite. There were some who bit, drank, dashed as though the act was nothing more than another ritual of life not to be engaged in any more than necessary. But then there was Tepesh—Lord Provost Tepesh—who always took his time. It didn’t matter whether the person was a stranger, a chemically enhanced bovine, or his best friend; he always savoured every last drop of blood offered as though it were his last.

The piquant tang of his sweet girl, his Kitten, his Lady Ouida flowed steadily into him. With every ounce of the drug he devoured, the intoxicating compounds within demanded that he drink more and more…

“L—Lord Provost…” Ouida’s perky voice was becoming raspy and low. If she could, she’d let him feast on her all day, but her body could only produce so much at one time. Unfortunately, bite marks had the luxury of never regenerating; there was nothing stopping him from cleaning her dry.

She called his name again, but the words went in one ear and out the other. With a sigh, her hand unfurled from his and her eyes flickered closed. Her body began to tremble, first no different than a regular shudder, but then increasing in pace until the quivers flowed into Tepesh as well. The sensation jolted him back into the present, and he jumped off of her.

“Ouida?!” he exclaimed “Ouida?!”

He smeared his bloody lips with his hand and turned her head upright. Her eyes refused to open and her face—once full of vigour—was languid and paler than usual.

“Ouida? Speak to me!” He lifted her by the shoulders and tried to shake some kind of consciousness into her.

Soon, her eyelashes flitted only to go calm again. Her lips parted but were drooping and cracked, “L—Lord...Prov…?”

An audible exhale released from his system and he held her tight, petting the back of her head as he burrowed his face into her, “Yes, my Kitten, I’m here...”

Ouida attempted to open her eyes but her vision was wavering in and out colour. She was no longer lying in the grass but looking down at it? “Where...am I?”

“You’re with me,” he sniffed, “I’m so sorry…”

“What did…? I don’t remember…”

With affirmation that she was, at least, somewhat okay, Tepesh told her to hush and save her breath. He then stood and walked back into the house carrying her in his arms. Her limbs dangled wherever they decided to fall, but her mouth remained parted and mumbling incoherent syllables. Luckily, Harold wasn’t in their path to ask any questions. Tepesh took her up to his room and laid her carefully onto his bed, where he tucked her into the satin sheets. Ouida’s head made a soft dimple in the pillow and he made a mental note of her blood pressure.

After returning with a cup of blood from the larder, he helped her to sit up and press her lips to the straw.

“There you go,” he said, “Drink it all for me.”

She looked up at him with listless eyes, “Tired.”

“I know, I know. Keep drinking.”

It wouldn’t restore her to full health any time soon, but it would put her on the path to recovery quicker than if she waited for the body to refuel itself on its own.

“Tomorrow?”

“No ‘tomorrow’, you’re much too drained to do anything.”

“Poem?”

“I’ll read your poetry to Harold,” Tepesh assured, setting the cup on the nightstand, “Lie down, you need to rest.”

“Rest,” Ouida repeated.

“Yes.”

Her head fell to the side facing him, “Mh...I...I can’t wait…”

Tepesh gently removed the bow and from her hair but, as always, the collar remained. “For what?” he asked, feeling a bit guilty for encouraging conversation.

“France.”

He chuckled and kissed her forehead, “Me neither, my love. Me neither.”


End file.
